


Innocence Dies First (War Doesn't Spare the Young)

by longforgottenstars



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Infinity war killed me, One Shot, Throne of Glass, my heart hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 09:42:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14494188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longforgottenstars/pseuds/longforgottenstars
Summary: Ilken assassins attack the palace of Orynth. Aedion gets word and races home to protect Lysandra, Evangeline, and the capital.





	Innocence Dies First (War Doesn't Spare the Young)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, so I saw Avengers: Infinity War on Friday and I am absolutely DEVASTATED which of course inspired me to write this little scene so I could pass on some of my heart-break to you :))))) 
> 
> Anyways, no spoilers for Infinity War, but definitely go see it so you can cry with me.

Aedion raced towards the palace, his heart pummeling a hole through his chest. _Here,_ _here, they were gods-damned here_. The guards didn’t stop him as he charged through the palace gate, not questioning the Wolf of the North as he barreled through, teeth bared.

His breathing was ragged as he barked, “Assassins in the palace! Block all exits— _no one leaves._ ”

Some of the lords, newly arrived courtiers, servants, and a few garrisons—all that had been left in Orynth. 

_Lysandra._

Aedion knew the shifter could take care of herself but the thought of Erawan’s gods-damned bastards laying a _hand_ on her—

On Evangeline.

A growl ripped from him as he took the stairs to the palace entrance in two and threes. He skidded through the doors, shouting orders to the guards standing idly by. 

_They were here, inside his own gods-damned home. Here, they were here._

Aelin should have left fallen back and protected this city. Made it her stronghold.

“Damnit!” he roared, throwing open the doors to the throne room, sprinting down hallways, sword out—ready for blood or battle or whatever might await him.

Steeling himself for whatever he came across. 

The sounds of running feet and shouts echoed off the walls, no bustle and warmth to the place—not like from Aedion’s childhood. 

Tearing through the upper levels of the palace, he found nothing and no one. Panic was rising in his chest, threatening to choke him.

 _Where are they, where are they, where are they_ —

His senses prickled, a familiar scent making his stomach twist as he thundered up steps towards the tower rooms Lysandra and Evangeline had claimed. 

Terror—pure and undiluted coursed through his veins. 

Valg.

Or one of their horrendous cousins. A creation from Morath. 

The tang of iron and rot was overpowering as he almost slammed the door to Lysandra’s suite off its hinges. 

Aedion had hauled ass back to Orynth, not taking a days rest even after an Ilken attack left his men bloodied and exhausted. The Ilken had left his men bloody and exhausted, stirring the fear in their hearts about what they would be facing on the next killing field.

In the final throes of death one of the Ilken had shuddered a grating, gurgling laugh, hissing through its teeth, “Kill as many of us as you please, General,” blood poured out of its deformed mouth, “But we won’t be the only ones slaughtered. My brethren in Orynth high, white palace will enjoy feasting on your pretty wife—”

Aedion had slammed his sword down up on the creature’s neck, ending its miserable existence with a crunch.

The following hours were a blur. 

He’d barely ordered his men to follow him into Orynth when they could before he’d gotten on the nearest horse—riding the poor animal near to death before he’d arrived at the city, prayers to any god that was listening on his lips.

He nearly choked on those futile prayers—realized the gods did not listen or care—as he beheld the bedroom.

The black blood of one of the Ilken smeared the walls and its lifeless, decapitated form lay on one side of the room. The window was broken and the armoire was tipped over, Lysandra’s bottles of creams and perfumes shattered on the flood.

His eyes landed last on Lysandra.

Sobbing over a small, slim body.

The body of a mere girl.

Evangeline.

His heart slammed to a stop in his chest.

The whole room seemed to grow smaller, constricting him into something useless and small and utterly gods-damned _useless_.

He could tell, just by looking at the amount of blood pooled around Evangeline that she was beyond what a healer could do for her. One would never arrive in time—

Shaking himself out of his trance he skidding to Evangeline’s side and placed his hands atop Lysandra’s over the wound.

The little girl was gasping, trying desperately to suck the life back into herself. 

Her cheeks were tear-stained, the pain evident in her eyes. “I…” she rasped, “I d-don’t want to die, Lysandra.”

As Lysandra tried to master herself, Aedion said, trying and failing to muster an assuring smile, “The healers are on their way, Ev. You’re going to be fine, everything will be okay.”

Two guards stumbled through the doorway and went pale at what they saw, “Find the healers— _quickly_.” Aedion waved them away.

“S-sir,” one of them started.

“ _Now!_ ” he yelled, the lump in his throat growing with each struggling breath Evangeline managed.

Lysandra had mastered herself, tears still running down her face, “Evangeline,” her voice wobbled, “Ev.”

“I don’t want…” a gasp, “To go. I don’t want to, I don’t want to—” Tears slid down Evangeline’s face.

Aedion met Lysandra’s gaze, holding it. 

Lysandra shook her head.

“No. _No_.”

Slowly, limply, Aedion removed his hands, sticky with blood. The blood of a gods-damned child—

His child.

Gods above, she hadn’t been born of his own seed, he hadn’t watched her grow up—but even before he’d married Lysandra Evangeline had kicked and pestered a place for herself in his heart.

Tears, warm and wet, slid down his face.

The air in the room became nonexistent—as if the little girl bleeding out on the ground was trying to pull all the life and air out of the room, trying to steal it back into her own body. 

Aedion looked back down at Evangeline. Her face had gone bone white, the scars on her cheeks contrasting in an ugly purple. 

He grabbed her hand and her eyes drifted over to him, seeming to just realize he was there.

“Ae…Aedion,” every breath, every pulse of her heat was weaker and weaker and weaker.

Lysandra took her hands off the wound with another sob and put a bloody hand to the girl’s cheek. A gentle smile—gods how she ever had the strength to _smile_ in that moment Aedion never knew—spread across Lysandra’s face.

“The healers will be here soon, Evangeline, nothing bad is going to happen to you. I—” the words caught in her throat, “I promise.”

“How do you…” an uneven breath, “…know?”

“Because I’m here to protect you,” Lysandra reached across her dying ward’s body and squeezed Aedion’s blood slicked hand with her own until it hurt. “Aelin will be back soon and she’s going to need help keeping everyone in line around here. In fact, I think—I think she is even considering making you one of her handmaidens.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Evangeline’s lips, “Really?”

“Really.”

“W-when she comes back…we can all…be together…” the words died on Evangeline’s once full, pink lips. Her eyes—full of mischief and youth and _hope_ —were dull. 

Evangeline was dead.

The low, agonized moan that ripped from Lysandra cracked Aedion’s heart into irreparable pieces.

The Wolf of the North bellowed his grief—a sound full of rage and despair and heart-wrenching guilt. It shook the foundations of the palace itself. 

If he, if Aelin, if the whole of Terrasen could not protect their children—couldn’t save them from the pain and death and torture they themselves had experienced…

Aedion hated Aelin, hated her for not staying in the north. Not protecting their _home_. Something he’d suggested from the moment they’d first set foot there two years ago. 

Instead he’d been pulled across the continent to hammer Erawan from the west.

Evangeline was dead.

And it was his damned fault.

The gods-damned healers finally arrived, blanching at the amount of blood—a shock to Aedion himself as well. How could someone as small as Evangeline bleed so much?

The two women approached slowly and Aedion realized this would be goodbye.

No longer would that astute, beautiful, laughing girl be able to run through the palace halls—giggling at the hell she’d raised. No longer would she hold her arms out for him, waiting for him to pick her up and swing her around.

Evangeline was dead.

When the healers tried to take her body away Lysandra snarled at them, refused to let go of the cooling corpse—no longer the little girl she’d loved but the empty shell, devoid of the vibrant life that had once filled it. 

Aedion held her tightly to him trying to talk her down as she screamed at the healers, screamed at the gods, screamed at the injustice of this horrendous world.

One of the healers returned with a sleeping tonic and between sobbing gasps Aedion forced it down her throat. 

He peeled off her blood-soaked clothing and bathed her, realizing Evangeline’s blood covered him as well.

The sticky red on his hands, under his nails, didn’t fade after washing and he nearly scrubbed his hands raw trying to get it off, _get it off_.

Evangeline was dead.

He’d been at war his whole life, had been walking on and off killing fields before most boys were allowed to wield edged swords in sparing matches. Death had lost its ability to bother him long ago. He had reveled in it, reveled in the bloodshed.

But this death—

The death of innocence.

War—the playing field which he had thought he’d had control over for so long, had tipped—showing him he controlled gods-damned nothing and no one. 

Something inside him broke.

He did not touch his sword again for a very long time.

 

 

 

 


End file.
